A/N: Hi y'all! If you know anything about me, you know I'm a sucker for a good old historical AU. In this case, we've gone with pirates, because what could be a better backdrop for the tumultuous, love-hate dynamic of Villaneve?

Obviously, I've taken a few liberties here, but I try my best to do my research and be relatively historically accurate. So without further ado... hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you think of this first chapter. :)

Title from "What The Water Gave Me" by Florence + the Machine, and inspired by Frida Kahlo's "Lo que el agua me dio."

Eve Polastri, Mission Log—1 June 1719

Target Profile: Oksana Astankova

Aliases: Villanelle; Oxana Vorontsova; Castrator of Men; Enchantress of the Violent Seas

Date of birth: unknown, circa 1690

Country of origin: Russia

Years active: 1713-present

Additional information: Captain Oksana Astankova, known as "Villanelle" in pirate circles, is the captain of an all-female crew aboard the Beautiful Monster. She came to prominence in 1713, when she escaped the custody of London authorities after assassinating a French diplomat. She is first documented as a captain in 1715, after her crew led a raid on the Italian trade ship Fortuna in the Mediterranean Sea.

Capt. Astankova is known to be an accomplished sailor and navigator; she is extremely skilled in combat with a variety of weapons, although she is said to prefer a cutlass. She is known for disemboweling her victims, both male and female, and for removing the manhood of the men she slays. This signature has earned her the nickname "Castrator of Men." She is an exceptionally effective and ruthless killer; one of the few surviving witnesses of her kills writes that "there is something of the devil about her… she shows no mercy and has no sense of remorse." [Note: quote edited for clarity and grammatical errors.] Her crew is notoriously difficult to capture, and it is rumored that Capt. Astankova has never lost a sailor in battle.

In March of 1719, Capt. Astankova and her crew were responsible for the sinking of His Majesty's Brittanic Ship the Royal Victoria and the subsequent deaths of several high-ranking officers, including Admiral Frank Haleton and Vice-Admiral William Pargrave. Her immediate capture is essential for the safety of all legitimate sea-faring vessels.

Report compiled by Special Agent Eve Polastri, British Royal Navy.

The meeting is scheduled to take place at midnight.

Eve isn't sure what she'd expected, but it certainly isn't this—a brightly lit, airy cabaret serving high-end (and very expensive) dishes. The lobby of the building is lavishly decorated, and sweet-scented candles flicker in every corner, giving the space an almost romantic atmosphere. Each table is covered in a blue-checked tablecloth; the scents floating through the air are (if Eve is being perfectly honest here) mouthwatering. It is not exactly the sort of establishment where one would expect to meet the quartermaster of a pirate ship, although Eve had been told to expect the unexpected for this mission. After all, most of what is known of the Beautiful Monster is the stuff of legends, not fact.

Standing in the midst of the formal setting, Eve can't help but feel severely underdressed. Thankfully, she'd chosen to wear an actual gown—an understated grey number with a modest silhouette and a conservative neckline—instead of a blouse and trousers. She'd deliberated for what had felt like hours over the outfit. Wear a dress, and look like an ordinary member of British society? Or dress like a pirate, to exude the sort of confidence she's sure she'll need to impress the quartermaster? Normally, Eve doesn't worry so much about her clothing; she wears things that are functional and convenient, because really, what's the point of putting in an effort to look nice if you can't do your job? But this is different. This is Eve's first real undercover mission, and she'll be damned if she screws it up.

Feeling only slightly nervous, Eve scans the room with an appraising eye, looking for the woman she's come to meet. Although she hadn't been given a name (understandably, Eve thinks; if she were a pirate, she wouldn't want anyone knowing her identity, either), the letter she'd received had indicated a symbol. Eve is supposed to approach the table topped with a bouquet of black roses and wolf's bane. It's a concerning combination of flowers—according to Eve's research, the symbolic meaning essentially translates to "beware, for death awaits"—but she cannot help but appreciate the beauty of the combination when her eyes at last pick it out, sitting in the center of a table in the far corner of the room. The roses aren't quite black but rather a deep crimson, and the delicate blue stalks of the wolf's bane create a striking juxtaposition where they peep out from between velvety petals. It's a sinister bouquet, to be sure, but there's something inexplicably alluring about it.

The table is empty, which is odd because Eve isn't early. (Eve has many skills, but timeliness is, admittedly, not one of her strongest.) She approaches calmly, but her eyes are scanning the room for traps. It is possible that Villanelle and her crew may have already discovered Eve's intent to deceive; after all, Villanelle is said to have friends in high places. How else could she have escaped from prisons in England, Norway, and Italy in the span of six months, leaving a trail of carnage in her wake? Only a superhuman would be able to achieve such a feat on her own.

But people say Villanelle is not quite human—that there is something that lies behind her eyes that is lost and unexplainable, beyond the comprehension of any normal person. Then again, people say many things about the elusive captain. It is Eve's task to determine what is true and what is false.

First, though, she has to find a way to get herself onboard the Beautiful Monster, which is where this meeting comes in.

She takes a seat at the table, trying not to fiddle with the silverware. The hue of the wolf's bane in the centerpiece exactly matches the shade of the tablecloth, Eve notices absentmindedly, and wonders if the coordination was planned or simply a happy accident. Planned, she decides, looking around the rest of the room. Everything here is too perfect to be real.

There is something like a glamour to this place, in the magical sense—a feeling that the wool is being pulled over your eyes just a little too heavy-handedly. The glittering exterior conceals something far more twisted beneath. Eve sees it in the way the other patrons of the establishment gaze around the room. They are dressed in the most fashionable clothing—silks and damasks in almost violently vivid colors and gaudy trimmings—but the finery cannot mask their eyes, flickering with something steely and primal.

She doesn't even notice she has company until the young woman in front of her is clearing her throat in an impatient, almost entitled manner, as if she is the sort of person that never has to wait for anything.

Eve's first thought, when she looks up to greet the stranger, is that she is very young to be demanding that sort of respect. The girl standing before her appears to be no more than sixteen, judging by the softness of her features and the way she stands almost awkwardly, as though she is still growing into her own limbs. Her hair is curly, and a deep auburn shade; it is cropped close on one side and somewhat longer on the other. She regards Eve with an expression of supreme boredom, as if she is currently thinking of a dozen far better ways she could be spending her time instead of participating in this meeting.

"You are Eve Polastri?" There is a trace of an accent—Russian, Eve guesses—to the words, although English rolls off the girl's tongue in a way that suggests she is comfortable with the language.

"Yes." Eve is proud of how even her voice is, although managing not to be intimidated by a literal child is a low bar.

The young woman does not give her name; unfortunately, it had not been in any of the files Eve had studied prior to this meeting, and so she is left in the dark. She comforts herself with the thought that if this mission is successful, she will learn the quartermaster's identity, and probably the identities of the rest of the crew as well. The intel she gains will save countless lives. Not for the first time, Eve feels a heady mixture of pride and fear at the thought that Carolyn Martens has chosen her, of all people, for this task.

Meanwhile, the young quartermaster settles into the seat across from Eve, flippantly pushing the vase of flowers to Eve's side of the table. "Do you like the flowers?"

Is this some sort of test? Eve nods. "They're very striking."

"They are a gift. From the captain."

"How generous of her."

For some reason, that elicits a laugh. "Oh, yes. Our captain is a very generous woman."

"But?" Eve asks, sensing that there is more to it than that.

"Every gift comes at a price." The redhead leans low over the table, suddenly appearing several years older, and Eve catches a hint of sharp intelligence in her eyes. "How much are you willing to pay, Eve?"

Eve finds herself unexpectedly frozen under the girl's unyielding gaze. Her mind runs through a dozen possible responses, but none of them seems to fit. She'd thought they'd ask for her (falsified) background—daughter of immigrants, disillusioned with the Royal Navy's lack of advancement opportunities for women—or skills—a passable cook, trained in the use of firearms, willing to learn the finer points of sailing—but nothing had prepared her for this.

"Anything," she hears herself say, as if from a distance, and she knows immediately that it is the truth. Eve has been waiting all her life for an opportunity like this—not only an opportunity to prove herself, but a chance to study the psyche of someone as fascinating as Villanelle—and there is no price she is not willing to pay.

"Be careful what you promise," the young woman says gravely, before her face splits into an ear-to-ear grin that is almost unnerving in its abruptness. She laughs at the startled look on Eve's face, the edges of her smile curling up into the beginnings of a smirk. "I am only kidding! I have only just met you and I can already tell you take everything too seriously. How boring."

Eve opens her mouth, but the young quartermaster is already extending a hand toward her, which Eve shakes in a daze.

"Welcome to the crew, Eve Polastri. Villanelle will be very pleased with you. Even if you are boring," she adds as an afterthought.

"…thanks?" Eve isn't sure how to respond, or whether she even wants the validation of someone like Villanelle; her heartbeat is pounding in her ears, and she's sure the quartermaster can read the nervousness in her face. Why had Carolyn chosen her, again? Another skill Eve is distinctly lacking is a decent poker face. She is rather an open book.

"I am Irina Vasilieva, Villanelle's second-in-command." Irina is already standing up from the table, kicking her chair back and giving Eve an imperious look as though she should be following at Irina's heel already. "The ship departs at dawn, so it is best if you come now."

"Now?" Eve's head is reeling. There is something about this that seems too easy. "But—my things—"

Irina rolls her eyes. "I will accompany you to retrieve them, and then we will go to the ship."

Eve feels herself nodding numbly, standing to follow Irina when—

"Bring the flowers," Irina commands, gesturing back at the table. "Villanelle does not like it when people refuse her gifts."

By the time they board the ship, the first faint rays of sunlight are beginning to illuminate the horizon. The sea is calm and the sky is free of clouds, though a slight wind blows the few loose tendrils of Eve's tied-back hair around her face and into her eyes. Irina scampers off nearly as soon as they set foot on the deck, not even bothering to tell Eve where to go. So she just stands there a moment, smelling the salty odor of harbor seaweed carried on the breeze, before turning back to observe the movements of the ship.

A few sailors are pushing boxes and arranging coils of rope; they laugh merrily as they work, fully absorbed in the motions of readying the ship for its journey. Strikingly, all are women. Eve knows from the background research she'd compiled that Villanelle refuses to let men aboard the Beautiful Monster, but it is entirely different seeing it in person. There is something about the scene that recalls the Greek mythos of the Amazons, and for the first time in her career, Eve feels powerful and almost free.

What a thing to be feeling on the deck of one of the most notorious pirate ships of the last decade! She laughs a little, reminding herself that true freedom will come when the seas are at last rid of the threat of Villanelle. No one else will have to die like Bill, she thinks, steeling herself. This is about revenge.

"You must be Eve."

The voice comes from somewhere behind her; Eve turns and spots a young woman approaching. She is dressed in drab brown trousers with a white blouse and vest on top, and she wears a friendly smile as she steps forward and immediately envelops Eve in a warm hug.

"I'm Elena," the woman says at last, stepping back. "Welcome aboard!"

"Thank you." Eve attempts a smile, but she's sure it looks as false as it feels.

"Right, well, I was told to get you down to the galley," Elena says amiably, "that's where I work most of the time. You'll like the girls, they're all wonderful, and Stella will be up to fetch your things soon. Mostly we sleep on deck, when the weather's nice, but there's space down below for when…"

Eve's mind tunes out the excited chattering as she lets Elena lead her down and into the dark belly of the ship. It's surprisingly warm belowdecks, and the ship is clearly well maintained—the polished wooden walls shine softly by the light of lanterns spaced out every so often along the corridor, and the floor is lined with a thin red carpet. The interior is (unexpectedly) nicer than many of the Royal Navy ships Eve has been on; it is obvious that the crew members care a lot for the wellbeing of the vessel.

"Here we are," Elena says cheerfully, pushing open a swinging door that Eve steps through with a gracious nod. "Welcome to the galley."

Eve's first impression of the room is that it is close—most of the room is taken up by the large iron stove suspended from the ceiling by heavy chains. The floor is metal, and the edges of the room are lined by wooden counters. Well-organized rows of pots and pans hang from the walls and the rafters, gleaming in the growing light admitted by a large porthole in the far wall.

"Eve, this is Ettie and Liza," Elena says, gesturing to two young women who are currently arranging fresh fruit on a square metal plate. They turn around at the sound, one of them giving Eve a timid wave and the other an appraising glance.

"Nice to meet you, Eve," says the one who had waved. She's a mousy girl, probably in her late teens, with a petite frame and a dusting of freckles across her upturned nose. "I'm Ettie."

The other girl—well, woman might be a better term—doesn't waste time with introductions. She coolly presents Eve with the plate, eyes flashing almost in challenge. As Eve takes the plate, she simply watches from underneath long, dark eyelashes, blue-grey eyes glittering ominously.

"You must be Liza," Eve says, trying to alleviate the tension. "Um… thank you?"

Liza smirks, and Eve can't tell if it's good-natured or not. "It's not for you, it's for the captain. We always make her a special breakfast on the mornings we depart from port. As the newbie, it falls to you to deliver it."

Elena, standing by Eve's side, is no longer so cheery. She turns to Eve, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Just take her the plate and then leave, alright? Villanelle's always in a foul mood in the mornings, but you'll be fine."

"She won't kill you. Probably." Liza's smile is absolutely diabolical.

Eve doesn't much want to think much about that, so she simply nods. She should probably be nervous—after all, Villanelle's reputation precedes her—but all she can feel is a vague tingle of excitement rushing through her limbs. She hadn't expected to meet the captain so early on; this is certainly a step in the right direction for her mission.

She draws in a deep breath. "Tell me the way to her quarters."

It's not a long walk to the captain's quarters, and Eve is proud when she arrives without having gotten lost even once. She doesn't feel at home on the ship, exactly, but she doesn't feel out of place, either; navigating the corridors feels almost natural to her after the time she's spent on Navy ships, and every crew member she passes greets her with a cordial nod or friendly smile.

Standing in front of Villanelle's door, Eve feels the first flicker of uncertainty cross her mind. The woman behind these doors is known as the Castrator of Men, after all. But then, Eve is not a man. She has nothing to be afraid of. Right?

She knocks three times, just as Elena had said to do, and is rewarded by the sound of a voice on the other side of the door calling back, "Come in!"

The door swings open easily when she pushes it, revealing a richly furnished room. But it's not the furnishings that catch Eve's eye. It's Villanelle, sprawled out across the bed in a robe that leaves very little to the imagination.

The only thing that Eve can think is, wow. The firsthand accounts all say that Captain Astankova is an extraordinarily beautiful woman, but Eve had assumed that, like all tellers of tales about pirate queens, the witnesses had taken certain artistic liberties in their descriptions. It appears that she had been mistaken. In person, Villanelle is just as gorgeous—and as intimidating—as the stories would have had Eve believe.

Villanelle's stare is languid and lazy; she takes her time looking at Eve with wide, catlike eyes. Under the scrutiny of her gaze, Eve feels like a mouse pinned by the talons of a hawk. It's an instinctive feeling, not a rational one—that prickling sensation you get at the back of your neck when you are alone in a dark alley, the innate sense that warns that you are being watched by something with the power to end your life at its whim. Villanelle looks, and she looks again, up and down Eve's body like she can learn everything she needs to know about Eve with her eyes alone.

When she speaks, it is abrupt, although not unpleasant. "What is your name?"

"I…" It takes Eve a moment to recover her powers of speech. "Eve Polastri, ma'am."

Instantly, she curses herself. Ma'am, really? Eve knows the proper form of address for a ship's captain—she'd be a pretty lousy midshipman if she didn't—but it's too late to take it back now.

Sure enough, Villanelle's expression shifts ever so slightly, though Eve cannot tell whether she is amused or offended. Everything about the captain is carefully controlled—there is no waste to her movements, nothing superfluous in the little hum of amusement that she lets escape from those perfectly pink, full lips. (Focus, Eve.) She does not shift from her position on the bed. Even though it is Villanelle who must look up to meet Eve's eyes, it still feels as though she towers above everything else in the room.

"Ma'am?" Villanelle raises an eyebrow. "So… matronly. Of the both of us, that title is more fitting for you, hmm?"

Eve isn't sure whether to be offended by that, so she pushes down the annoyance and clears her throat. "I'm here to bring you breakfast."

"How very considerate of you, ma'am." Villanelle's Russian accent transitions flawlessly to a posh British one with a light, mocking tone. She pats the empty space on the bed beside her. "Come, sit."

"I really should get back to the galley."

"Tsk, but Irina was right. You are very boring." The Russian accent is back, rolling over the r sounds with an almost playful trill. Villanelle's eyes glitter, and Eve has the distinct impression that she's being toyed with.

She doesn't let herself rise to Villanelle's challenge, just stares stonily at the captain, clutching onto the silver plate in her hands to ground herself. This is the woman who killed Bill, after all; she does not deserve to get a rise out of Eve. For someone with such a reputation for commanding respect, Villanelle is much less serious than Eve had expected. In fact, she is downright annoying.

"Sit. I promise, I do not bite." Villanelle grins, wolflike. "Not unless you want me to."

It takes everything in Eve to keep her features still and stony—is she really being propositioned by a pirate captain? and a female one, at that?—but she manages to school her expression, channeling Carolyn. Eve does not appreciate being toyed with; Villanelle will have to do more than that to rattle her.

If Villanelle is disappointed by the lack of a reaction, she doesn't say. She simply rolls over onto her side, the robe flashing just a bit more skin as she stretches.

Eve is sure it's deliberate. Her cheeks burn uncomfortably hot, and she quickly averts her eyes, though a glimmer of desire to let herself explore Villanelle's form lingers. The captain is a very attractive woman, certainly. But that is not what Eve came here for, and she reminds herself who she's dealing with. Villanelle is bloodthirsty, ruthless, shamefully self-interested. She is a known seductress, toying with the hearts of men and women alike, and she will stop at nothing in pursuit of the finest luxuries the world has to offer. Put simply, she is a monster, and it is Eve's duty to put an end to her reign of terror.

"Don't tell me you are afraid of me, Eve," the captain purrs, and Eve has to admit that she likes the way her name sounds in Villanelle's accent. There is something sensual about the drawn-out pronunciation, as though Villanelle is squeezing every last bit of life out of that single syllable.

Eve doesn't mean to be quite so defiant, but her response is immediate. "I'm not afraid of you."

"You are."

"I am not," Eve insists stiffly.

Villanelle gives a theatrical sort of sigh. "You are a terrible liar, Eve Polastri." She tosses her blonde hair back over her shoulder. "Only fools do not fear me. Why are you here?"

"To deliver your breakfast."

"I think you know that is not what I meant." Those piercing eyes send daggers right into Eve's soul as Villanelle rises from the bed and crosses the room. She invades Eve's personal space without hesitation, standing so close that Eve can feel her body heat radiating through the thin robe she wears. Up close, Villanelle is taller than Eve, and the power in her lithe frame is evident. Eve can see the trace of a thin scar down Villanelle's left cheek, the sign of a battle fought and won.

She can't help but take a step back as Villanelle asks, "Why are you really here?"

Eve's heart is pounding out of her chest. Remain calm, she tells herself, you were trained for this, but once again she finds that her training has left her woefully unprepared. For every step back she takes, Villanelle takes another forward, until Eve finds herself with her back to the wooden door of the cabin. Eve's white-knuckled grip on the silver plate between them is the only thing keeping their bodies from being pressed flush against each other.

"I was curious," she admits at last, the words coming out in a rush. It's a struggle to meet Villanelle's eyes, but once she does, Eve cannot look away. "I wanted something more exciting than the Navy could offer."

It isn't a lie. Of course, it isn't the whole truth, either, but Villanelle doesn't need to know that.

"No offense, Eve"—Eve braces herself for the following remark, which is sure to cause offense, based on her limited experience of Villanelle—"but you seem too soft to be the pirate type."

"I'm not."

"Not soft?" One of Villanelle's hands has found its way up to Eve's cheek—oh, god, she's so close—and the captain's thumb brushes almost tenderly across smooth skin. "Or not a pirate?"

"Neither," Eve says. She can hear her own voice shake, but she is determined not to give Villanelle the satisfaction of seeing any weakness. How is this happening? She's been on the ship for an hour at the most, and already she's found herself here—that is to say, pinned against a door by the most wanted female pirate on the seven seas.

Villanelle's eyes flicker over Eve's face, reading her every microexpression. Eve is sure her features give her away despite her false show of confidence; she feels absolutely laid bare under the power of those clear eyes, which shift from green to brown and back again in the flicker of candlelight.

What scares Eve most isn't how powerless she is—how utterly capable Villanelle would be of killing Eve with her bare hands, if she felt the urge. No, the thing that scares Eve is that she does not feel nearly as afraid as she should.

Fear is an emotion Eve knows how to deal with. It is something she can push through with logic and strategy and decisive action, all of which are things she excels at. (Well, the logic and strategy for sure, but she's been improving on the decisive action front as well.)

But the sensation coiling its way through Eve's body now, pulsing through her veins like some sort of poison, is more complicated than simple fear. She is afraid, yes—as Villanelle had said, only a fool would approach Captain Astankova with anything less than a healthy dose of caution—but it's not only that. There is revulsion and fascination, as well as a feeling almost like kinship, as if she sees something of herself in the woman whose face is currently oh-so close to Eve's own, the two of them locked together in a position almost as if they are dancing.

"You think pirates are bad people?" Villanelle asks it like a question, but it feels more like a taunt. "Do you think I am a bad person?"

Eve's voice is hoarse. "Yes."

Maybe it will be the death of her, but Eve refuses to stand here and soothe Villanelle's conscience—not when Villanelle has been the death of so many people Eve cares for. Not to mention the blood of all the other innocent people she has on her hands.

"Well. At least you are honest." Villanelle pauses. "You and me, we are not so different."

Eve can't help but laugh, though the situation is not at all funny. "We are nothing alike. You're a ruthless killer."

Villanelle sticks her bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. "Rude," she says with an infuriating little smirk that makes Eve want to punch her right in the mouth. "Even ruthless killers have feelings, you know."

"Maybe you should think about the feelings of the people you kill the next time you're holding a cutlass to someone's throat," Eve spits, tasting blood in her mouth where she's bitten into her own cheek. Fumbling with the latch on the door, she shoves the plate of fruit straight at Villanelle's chest. Strawberries bounce across the wooden floor, and Eve stands there for a moment, frozen, before her instincts kick in and she throws herself through the door and down the corridor of the ship.

And oh, she might have hell to pay for this later. But Eve cannot help but replay, over and over, the way Villanelle looks in that moment—utterly caught-off guard, her expression somewhere between surprise and delight. Maybe beneath that cold, confident façade, there is something human about her after all.